Pretty
by Weezila
Summary: Dick, for all his brains, never quite understood the meaning of the word "pretty". Alfred, as the man and grandfather who'd taught him English in the first place, explains it to him. And Bruce always says, NEVER argue with Alfred...


**Hello Internet. **

**I learned the history of the word "pretty" today, and immediately thought of Robin. It's a surprising little tale, but it got me thinking about that deep philosophical debate over what is "pretty" and what is not, as well as the troubled teens' internal war over who and what is "pretty". **

**I thought it was a worthwhile little lesson to get out there, as well as an excellent opportunity for a sweet grandfather moment from our favorite butler...!**

**Enjoy!**

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Pretty.

That word was something that Dick had always had difficulty with when learning English. Why would anyone ever call something merely _pretty_ when they could call it beautiful? When, they could describe how you felt seeing something and call it breathtaking? Why would you call something _pretty_ if it meant beauty, but you didn't want to call it that? How could pretty be something so good when teenagers killed themselves thinking they weren't pretty _enough, _ how could it be good when people wasted their hard earned money on tricks and useless things to make themselves someone else's definition of beautiful?

_Pretty?_

How could anyone be pretty? Why would anyone ever _want_ to be pretty, when they could be beautiful or breathtaking? Why did no one ever think they _were_ pretty? Was it some unreachable level, was there another meaning to the word he had never considered before?

Oh, he had issues with many words in the English lexicon, but it was this particular word that troubled him today.

It bothered him because he caught sight of himself in the full length mirror in the entrance hall of Wayne Manor, just before Bruce, Alfred, and he set out for a gala downtown, and didn't mind what he saw. He wasn't a vain person, and in the circus no one ever thought to think of being good-looking. Things there were often too strange, too done-up with makeup and masks, and when the crowds had gone home you were left with hard work and family time, none of which meant you had to watch your appearance. Living on the road didn't work like that.

But being the adopted son of Bruce Wayne had quickly taught him that appearance, even the subtle things, could help and sway people to where you want them. Being put together and handsome would get you far with the press, being confident and debonair would get you far in business, and being suave and charming would get you far with the ladies. All of which had its perks at different times, _especially_ when you were a superhero in your off-time and possibly might need to cash in on a few personal connections to get things done, so all worthwhile things to train to be.

Dick didn't have as much trouble slipping into the role of "Richard Grayson" as Alfred had originally fretted when the gypsy boy had first showed up with shaggy hair and well-worn clothes.

The tuxes and suits fit like just another costume his mom had designed for him to show off his acrobatics in before a performance. The neat haircuts and intense grooming Alfred laid out like a military checklist were like physically preparing oneself to attempt a new contortionist move or gymnast trick, if less painful. The smiles, the grace, the verbal banter Bruce trained him to do to perfection was just like learning the lines he had to say to a crowd to get them to ooh and ah at the little trapeze boy—except maybe just with a little more variety and being more intellectually challenging, but for a boy who (once put into a real 'school' thanks to Alfred's homeschooling standards) recently found himself to be a child genius, it was wasn't hard.

It wasn't him, but it wasn't hard.

Just another mask.

So when he caught sight of himself in the mirror, he wondered what others would see and think when they looked at him. Actually, he knew what they'd think because everything about himself right then was planned out so that he was the perfect son of an influential aristocrat, and perfectly charming to capture the hearts of Gotham (icy as those hearts tended to be).

But he wondered what they'd _see._

They'd see a short, thin, but well-muscled child with shocking electric blue eyes, like little orbs of sapphire carved into irises. They'd see the smooth pale skin of a young boy contrasting with inky black lashes and casually styled pitch black hair. They'd see the overly expensive, mini Paris-runway tux that was form-fitted to him with the deep red tie and rose colored pocket handkerchief, making him looked like a little boy dressed up for church on Easter Sunday. They'd see the similar looking man with black hair and crystal blue eyes behind him, close enough in resemblance to be his father, but well-known enough to be instantly recognizable as the adopted father of the little circus boy in front of him.

They would see that, but would it mean he was pretty? Or was handsome the right word for a boy? Didn't they mean the same thing, and if so, who had assigned such words to be gender influenced, because that was stupid!

But he still wondered if he was pretty.

"You look troubled, master Richard." Alfred said, coming to stand over his shoulder in the reflection as well.

"I was wondering if I was pretty." He said truthfully. Alfred was sort of his go-to person when he talked about words, having been the one to teach him English in the first place, and still teaching if he was being honest.

Alfred, for all his stoicism that he'd bestowed upon the Batman, simply lifted one eyebrow at the comment.

"It is interesting you say that, it being the question every teenager and young adult has asked themselves for so long as I've been alive. And, also the source of much of their stress and _angst_ if that is the appropriate term." The old man said calmly. "However, most never ask it so consciously, but I find in comforting an nine year old has the wits to come to understand that question." He said.

Dick only frowned, unsatisfied. "You didn't answer me." He complained.

Alfred let his raised eyebrow drop. "You didn't exactly pose it as a question, now did you?"

Dick remembered back and sigh in frustration. "Fine then. _Am_ I pretty? Do _you_ think am, or would others consider me so? I don't know what values America places on being…_ attractive_, nor do I even think I understand what the word means." He huffed in irritation. "How can something be pretty but not beautiful? Why can't anyone ever _be_ pretty? Why is it so important if no one is! I never minded the way I looked, but is there something I'm missing? Did I learn it wrong, have I been using it correctly? Is it just one of those things you have to memorize or-?" He vented his frustrations, but fell silent as two hands came down gently on his shoulders.

He looked up at the mirror to see Alfred standing behind him, aged but firm hands resting on his tiny shoulders and actually smiling ever so slightly with a fond air to it.

"No, Master Richard, you use it correctly." He said kindly, his even voice emotionless to everyone except the Bats in the family, who'd recognize the amused and fond tone he allowed to show through. "And if you must know… I do think you are pretty. But not for the reasons pop culture may have you believe."

Dick frowned, considering that, and Alfred let his slight smile broaden just a little bit.

"You see," He explained, "The word '_pretty'_ originated in Old English many millennia ago. In those rather uneducated times, it was used to mean "trick" or "deceit". Then, it disappeared from all use until suddenly resurfaced in the 1400s to mean "artful" or "clever.""

"Like Robin." Dick said confidently. Those were all words Bruce had described the hero-persona of Robin with, making sure those qualities were worked into his personality to ensure he'd be the perfect hero to compliment both his natural personality, and also the hero that was Batman's partner.

Alfred was very much aware of this, and smiled warmly.

"Exactly." He agreed. "It could also mean _"something ingeniously or cleverly made_", and well as describe a man to be _"brave, gallant, or warlike"_ . That meaning softened over time until Shakespeare's time in which it meant a decent fellow, and then right up to modern times where it could be synonymous with _nice_ and often defined as '_pleasant or pleasing in a vague way'._ Even more so now adays, it seems to be used nearly condescendingly when reducing someone from being beautiful, to _merely pretty."_

Dick blinked.

He was used to these little lessons of the history of words, but this one was rather strange, even by comparison to the weird tales of the more obscure words that Alfred somehow managed to tell with a straight face.

"Then why do people care, if it's used condescendingly?" He murmured miserably.

"Because they believe they must be pretty to be beautiful. We both now know those two things are mutually exclusive, having nothing to do with one another."

Dick frowned at his reflection, which frowned back, looking rather displeased and disapproving at him.

"If you must know… personally, I think you are both pretty _and_ beautiful." Alfred said softly, gripping his shoulders slightly tighter in a comforting gesture. "I believe you are gallant, brave, artful, clever, and ingeniously crafted to be the wonderful grandson you've graced an old man's heart of being."

Dick felt his throat close up. For such a dry, matter-of-fact voice, Alfred really knew exactly what to say. How could an emotionless tone convey the perfect feelings?

"And I also think you are beautiful, both in soul and spirit, as well as in those lovely eyes you and master Bruce take delight in charming the ladies with. Be it physically or emotionally, you will shine brightly tonight, Master Richard, I assure you."

The boy swallowed roughly. The sapphire eyes looking at him through the glass seemed oddly watery.

"Bruce said never to argue with you." He said softly.

"And right he is." Alfred agreed briskly, dropping his hands and folding them properly behind his back as always. Though, his composure was broken ever so slightly by the slight smirk and warm gray eyes that met his through the mirror's. "And you would do best to listen to your father, Master Richard." He said softly.

Without another word he turned and opened the front door, holding it for him in that perfect business-like way of his that clearly told him they were running late. Dick blinked at him and smiled absentmindedly as he went out the front door, not bothering to look at the mirror again.

Suddenly, he felt… _pretty. _


End file.
